Missing: Miss Fisher
by MissTempleton
Summary: When a chameleon goes missing, where should a Detective Chief Inspector start looking? And how might a toddler be able to help when Melbourne's Finest are left clueless?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson sauntered down the stairs of His Majesty's Theatre.

Well, actually, no, to be fair, he didn't saunter.

He swaggered.

Jack hated dressing up. Everyone who knew him, knew that; and those who loved him, knew best of all. It was unfortunate that he wasn't allowed to wear his thoroughly disreputable Gardening Trousers to work, but he feared (correctly) that such a sartorial _faux pas_ might be a career-limiting move.

On the other hand, he would occasionally admit the need to put on best bib and tucker for the sake of Appearances; he'd even been known to add a top hat, when the occasion demanded.

The Damascene Conversion to dressing up had taken place over a quiet cocktail with Mrs Robinson. At the time, she hadn't been Mrs Robinson; she'd been Miss Fisher. Still was, to all intents and purposes, when there was a felony to be solved.

Anyway, back to the cocktail. It had been a Negroni, mixed by Tobias Butler, their butler (obviously). Had there been a fire lit? He couldn't honestly remember. It was certainly autumn, which meant the weather conditions were, in true Melbourne fashion, changing every ten minutes or so.

Miss Fisher had stood to rearrange the ornaments on the mantelpiece - Mr Butler having been called away mid-dusting, the only possible explanation for a lack of attention to that particular detail. She halted for a moment, with a photograph in her hand. He registered the lack of movement and looked away from Zane Grey for a moment.

No question was necessary. She saw his head lift, and their eyes met. Warmly.

"It's this picture," she explained, waving it vaguely in his direction. The photograph had been taken on board the liner _Strathaird_ , as they returned from England. Phryne glistened in ice blue, appearing silvery in the photographer's monochrome shot, and Jack stood aloof in black tie.

"What about it?"

"You, darling," she smiled. "Just you. Achingly smart."

"Achingly?" he teased. "That sounds painful."

"Perhaps not painful, but it was certainly inconvenient to have been quite so weak at the knees when you turned up at the theatre for Ruddigore," she reminisced.

From that day on, he was quite reconciled to wheeling out the stiff collar when the need presented itself. After all, if a man had the opportunity to render Miss Fisher weak at the knees, he'd be a fool to let it pass by, wouldn't he?

So, when asked by Mrs Robinson if he fancied _An Ideal Husband_ , he paused briefly to ask whether it was to be a tutorial at which he would have to take notes (he was hastily and lustily reassured) and donned his evening garb quite willingly.

Mrs Robinson having been distracted from the action on stage with an ease which caused Mr Robinson immense satisfaction (though they both knew the play well and laughed together at the most caustically humorous lines) he was behind her as they left the theatre, having been caught for a moment by the evening's 'Lord Caversham', Bernard Tarrant. The 'moment' had been of the actorly variety, requiring the usual list of ecstatic notices he'd received, and then the immortal line, "but enough of me, Jack, let's talk about you. What did _you_ think of my performance?" from which the Inspector eventually extricated himself without too much difficulty.

He then thrust his hands in his pockets, and, in full and certain knowledge that his partner-for-life found him irresistible in his current garb, _swaggered_ down the steps of the theatre to look for her.

She wasn't in the crowd, chatting to one of her innumerable acquaintance.

She wasn't by the car, parked cheekily right outside the theatre. The Hispano-Suiza was shiny, beautiful, much admired, and lacking one P. Fisher.

Eventually he saw a flash of ice-blue out of the corner of his eye, and turned.

Of course. He should have guessed. She was engaged in learning a soft-shoe shuffle from a street urchin who'd opportunistically sprinkled some sand on the pavement and urged a friend to whistle a tune.

Beggars were a bit of a problem as the country's indebtedness escalated, and much as he ought to have brought his professional conscience to bear, he couldn't fault the entrepreneurial spirit that had drawn a natural performer to a natural performance space. (And then sign up Miss Fisher as a shill).

Too good-humoured to put a stop to her fun, he kept his distance, propping a foot on the Hispano's running-board and admiring the view. The show only stopped when a large gentleman of questionable goodwill appeared from the alleyway. When they caught sight of him, hoofer and whistler quailed, and hoofed it.

Miss Fisher straightened her seams and regarded the man curiously. He approached her, with an expression that lacked benevolence. She asked him a question. He ignored her, and picked up the flat cap filled with pennies that the boys had collected. She asked him another question. He continued to act as though she wasn't there, and stuffed the cap in his pocket, before following in the boys' general direction with unhurried strides.

By the time she'd taken a step after him, she found herself surrounded by warm and loving arms, encased in best-quality black wool.

"Don't, Phryne." He said it so quietly that only she would hear.

She turned a stormy gaze to his troubled one, and tried to jerk her arm away from his grasp. Rather than grip her arms more tightly, he shifted his hands to her shoulders.

"If I start something here, I'll have to finish it. We know mendicants are a problem. We're dealing with it as best we can. It's unfair, I know, but let me do it my way?"

Once upon a time, Miss Fisher would have told him to go to a very hot place, and marched off to raise Cain all by herself. He could see in her eyes the desire to do just that.

But she was also a woman of her word, and when he'd got the promotion he hadn't wanted, he'd opened his vulnerable spirit to her and asked for her help; she'd unquestioningly offered it, and recognised she was having to make good on the promise.

It wasn't going to come easily, though. She bit her lip, and looked down. Fists clenched and unclenched. He'd asked her to weigh her self-imposed responsibility to The Underdog against her promise to him.

Eventually, words failed her. She nodded, and allowed him to help her into the passenger seat of the Hispano; and they returned to 221B The Esplanade with every outward semblance of calm.

That was, until the lights had been extinguished in the parlour and the door closed to the boudoir. Then Jack was left in no doubt whatsoever that Miss Fisher was very, very angry indeed. No voices were raised, but no holds were barred. A nail which dug too deeply may have prompted a sharp intake of breath, but no remonstrance was uttered. By the time sleep overtook him, he was conscious of having been consumed by a Fury.

He should not, therefore, have been surprised when, waking early, he found the bed otherwise empty, and a hastily-scrawled note propped on the dressing table.

"Gone Fishing. Back soon. DON'T WORRY. P."

The adjuration Not to Worry was heavily underlined, because obviously that would make all the difference. Underneath, an afterthought. He could tell it was an afterthought, because it had been added at a slightly rakish angle.

"x"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Don't worry? _Don't worry?_ The woman was certifiably insane. All of the sentient world knew that to Miss Fisher, fishing was the kind of activity undertaken for a few hours on a sunny day with a picnic and a man who would do all the difficult parts (as, for example, carrying the picnic basket, rods and reels, tying on flies, administering the services of a Priest to the catch, gutting it and so on).

And how soon was 'soon'? An hour? Lunchtime? Might she be away all day?

And did it have anything to do with last night's altercation? He fervently hoped not, for two reasons. First, he didn't want her queering the pitch for the team tasked with tackling the problem of mendicants.

Second, and much more importantly, she'd given her word. He knew she would find a way to bend the rules if she could, but he'd been pretty confident that the reason for her anger was that she couldn't bear to sit idly by and do nothing when vulnerable humans were being abused – but her commitment to him meant she had to do just that.

The idea that she might, despite everything, go and ride roughshod over the strategy of the Victoria Police upset him more than he liked to admit.

Still fulminating, he shaved, dressed and descended to the breakfast table, where the apple of his eye was demolishing an apple, lovingly peeled and quartered for her by her nanny, the indefatigable Mary Lou.

"Daddy!" the child announced cheerfully.

"Daughter!" he riposted in what was becoming a time-honoured tradition. They beamed at one another with justifiable smugness, and he pulled out a chair next to her, enquiring as to her plans for the day.

"I'm going to paint a picture to give to Mumma when she comes back from her trip," announced Elizabeth Jane.

Jack choked. Miss Elizabeth patted him on the back with more affection than effect.

"Her trip?" he asked cautiously. Elizabeth nodded firmly.

"She came to give me a kiss, 'cos she said she wouldn't see me for a couple of days, and so she had to make it a Really BIG kiss," the tot explained. "Did she give you a Really Big Kiss too, Daddy?"

Jack recalled the scratches on his back, winced and decided that what Mrs Robinson had given him to remember her by could probably qualify as a Fairly Monumental Kiss, and nodded wordlessly.

"Did she tell you where she was going?" he asked, feigning nonchalance as he buttered a piece of toast.

"No. Is it a EXCITING place?"

 _If it wasn't before she got there, it will be in pretty short order_ he thought ruefully, and gave a noncommittal reply; then, fearing he would get the third degree from his remarkably prescient two-year-old, moved the conversation on to Appropriate Subjects For Paintings, and escaped shortly afterwards to the relative safety of the City South Police Station.

He was in a quandary. He couldn't launch a formal search for Phryne; but he didn't want to wait until her body turned up on a slab (fishmonger's or coroner's) to at least _try_ to find out what she was up to.

He decided to seek out a sounding-board.

"Collins?"

"Sir?" the Sergeant put his head around Jack's office door.

"Come in and close the door, please."

Hugh Collins was a great listener. Mrs Collins often said so. On the downside, his MO was usually of the Determined Procedural Plodding rather than Inspirational Flashes of Genius approach. When the Inspector had finished outlining the problem, he was rewarded by no more than pursed lips and a shaken head.

"What're you going to do, sir?" he asked.

Jack sat back and sighed. "No idea, Collins. What would you do?"

The young man shrugged. "Probably just ask Dottie."

Jack nodded absently. Then sat forward eagerly.

"Collins, that's exactly what I'll do! Maybe Miss Fisher's confided in her anyway." He was already on his feet and reaching for his hat. "Come on, you can drive."

Never one to turn down an opportunity to spend time with His Dottie, Hugh was first to the car.

They caught Mrs Collins as she was about to accompany her twins and their nanny to the park, and managed to persuade her to turn back to the house and be Miss Williams for a few precious minutes.

"But, Inspector, I don't know what I can do!" she said anxiously, while simultaneously filling the kettle, lighting the burner on the cooker and pulling out a chair for the Detective Chief Inspector.

(Her husband had to pull out his own chair, because she'd inconveniently been provided by her Maker with only two hands, and three of them were currently engaged. Fortunately, Miss Stubbs was looking after the twins – otherwise, she'd also have had to deploy her three emergency hands and the back-of-head eyes that she'd discovered were a huge boon when small children were part of the reckoning).

"Dorothy, please don't worry," Jack tried to placate her. "I was just wondering if Miss Fisher had perhaps said something to you about her plans for the next few days?"

The biscuits fresh-baked that morning appeared as if by magic, alongside the cups, plates, milk and sugar. Napkins were neatly placed in front of every person, and Miss Williams produced her notebook, apparently part of the same motion.

"Not a word," she confirmed, settling herself comfortably at the foot of the kitchen table as the kettle progressed to the boil. "But is there something I can do to help look?" Pencil to the ready, she looked up enquiringly.

Jack grimaced, and sat back. The pause in conversation allowed the water to be poured on the leaves and the masking process to commence.

"If she's not said anything, we're not much further forward." He focused on his cup, but Mrs Collins resisted the urge to pour the tea too soon.

"All you know is that she was angry about the man taking the beggars' money?" she asked instead. "Are you sure she was angry?"

Jack chewed his cheek. "Quite sure." He set quietly to one side his memories of the evidence and Moved Swiftly On. "If you were Miss Fisher …?"

Everyone magically had a cup of tea in their hands. Miss Williams grasped hers and pondered the matter, then asked a hesitant question. "What are the police doing about the mendicants?"

Hugh cringed. Jack did a double take. "Everything we can, Dorothy. Of course. We move them on, quietly. We try to make sure they're not aggressive. There's no point in creating a drama right on the street."

"Sorry, Inspector," Dot shook her head and smiled. "I meant to ask, what are the police doing to stop them needing to beg?"

All of a sudden, Jack's hot cup of tea was scalding his hands, and he had to pull them away. It was the only possible explanation for the discomfort he felt in response to Dot's very reasonable question. He looked at the plate of biscuits, and couldn't quite find an appetite to take one.

He sipped some tea and swallowed it, with difficulty. "We're just doing what we've always done, in the way we've been trained to do it, Dorothy." He looked up at her squarely. "What would you have us do differently?"

She was flummoxed for a few moments, but then she looked up and smiled.

"I don't know what I'd do, but I think I know what Miss Fisher would do."

Both men leaned forward, half their energy already geared towards the next move.

"She'd ask them."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Of course. 'Gone Fishing'. Fishing for opinions. Looking for gossip. What else would Miss Fisher do?

Jack stroked his jaw and admitted to himself that once again, he didn't understand his wife at all. If she wanted to talk to the beggars, why did she have to go AWOL to do it?

He was also trying quite hard not to think about the people she would come across in the name of Research.

He thanked Mrs Collins for the tea, and watched Collins take careful charge of a bag of biscuits wrapped to take back to the station, then they excused themselves. Jack took the wheel, and pondered for a moment, before letting in the clutch. They then took a very roundabout route back to City South, which included His Majesty's Theatre.

No joy. The street at that time of day was more or less deserted; poor pickings for a beggar, so it wasn't surprising they weren't in evidence. After touring some of the more popular thoroughfares without catching sight of a certain sleek bob, he gave it up as a bad job and returned to the station. His attention being claimed as soon as he walked through the door by a subordinate with a knotty problem, it wasn't until early evening that he was free to consider the Mystery of the Missing Wife any further.

Catching sight of the time, he decided to make Elizabeth's bathtime even more of a priority than usual, and headed for home.

After a thoroughly hilarious (and soggy) interlude, safely bundled into pyjamas and dressing gown, favourite teddy at the ready to listen along, the tot selected a story book and brought it to Daddy to permit him to read it. As she settled herself on his lap, she piped up with an unexpected titbit.

"I saw Mumma today. At the shops."

Jack blinked, and tried not to tense. Affecting as relaxed a voice as he could manage, he asked where, but "at the shops" was the most that his daughter could come up with.

"Did Mary Lou see her too?"

"No, just me, Dadda."

"Did you talk to her?"

"No, she didn't see me. She went off with a boy. Can we have the story now?"

She was being very polite, but the delay in discovering what happened to Winnie-the-Pooh was obviously becoming an issue, so Jack opened to the first page of a story they could both almost have recited by heart. As he did so, he couldn't resist one more question, knowing full well that if he waited until after the story, she would likely be asleep.

"What was she wearing?" he tried.

"Trousers," confirmed the doyenne of diminutive dress.

Jack sighed inwardly. That didn't narrow it down. Miss Fisher had been the one who Wore the Trousers for as long as he'd known her, and had an extensive wardrobe of said garments. "The black ones?" he hazarded. Soo had confirmed that they were missing from the wardrobe, so it seemed likely.

"No, Daddy. Short trousers. Like Gid has," she corrected him, in reference to her best friend Gideon Collins, who at the advanced age of three and three quarters was her dictionary, partner-in-crime, mentor and all-round gazetteer.

(He couldn't read yet, either)

"Boy's shorts?" He gazed incredulously at his daughter, but she only nodded her head before pointing helpfully at the opening lines of the chapter. In case he'd forgotten what they were there for.

Jack sighed, and began.

"Here is Edward Bear …."

By the end of the first chapter, he could tell from the drooping head that she was already asleep, and settled her in her small bed, before descending to the dining room for a solitary dinner.

"Mr Butler?"

"Sir?" The factotum appeared in the doorway, wine bottle in hand to top up the Inspector's glass.

"Is Soo on the premises?"

"She is, sir."

"Might she spare me a moment?"

As if by magic, Phryne's maid appeared at Mr Butler's elbow; Mr B bowed to her with a careful politeness that made her eyes dance with laughter, and effaced himself. She turned to face Jack with an enquiring glance.

"Soo, you are aware that Miss Fisher is currently …" he sought for the words, "… away?"

"Yes."

(Soo tended to be a fairly efficient conversationalist. Jack recognised that she would be perfect for the witness box, but could wish she was a bit more loquacious outside of it).

"I don't suppose you know what she was wearing when she left this morning?" he asked, trying hard to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

"Black." At this even more abrupt reply, Jack's expression became disbelieving, and Soo relented a little. "Her black silk trousers, ribbed jumper and short jacket are all missing. Also the beret."

"Oh." He debated inwardly how to ask the next question, and decided there was no elegant way to approach it with this terrifyingly elegant young woman.

"Does Miss Fisher possess … a pair of shorts?"

"Short trousers? No."

He hadn't thought he could have missed that one, but it was good to have his suspicion confirmed. He thanked Soo, who promptly disappeared to the kitchen again; and downed his wine, before taking to his bed.

The bed was of a good size. Larger than a normal double. It was just as well, because Miss Fisher tended to be expansive in the act of sleeping.

When she wasn't in it, on the other hand, its emptiness was … marked. He lay awake, and tried not to worry, because he'd been thus instructed; but found it impossible. She was in Melbourne somewhere. Why wouldn't she come home? Was she being restrained somewhere against her will? Was she even … but he didn't let his mind go to that particularly dark place. He flung his arms wide, and she didn't crawl into them. He gazed at the ceiling until his eyes became tired, then closed them and stared at his eyelids instead.

And desperately missed Miss Fisher.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The scent on the pillow, breathed in steadily, allowed him to sleep in the end, and also brought a modicum of inspiration in the night. He thought it unlikely that Miss Fisher would have gone shopping for boy's clothing if there was the possibility of borrowing some instead; and with a fairly good idea of the one person who might have been able to help out, he set a course for the home of one Dr Elizabeth Macmillan. He was fortunate enough to find her still at breakfast, and was invited to share the contents of the coffee pot.

"Doctor."

"Inspector – to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mac was, Jack recalled, pretty good at poker. It showed. Or rather, it didn't.

"A quick question about your wardrobe, if I may."

She frowned, but waited.

"Do you, by any chance, possess a pair of shorts, Mac – such as a boy might wear?"

She looked at him quizzically. "No," was all she would say, though.

He fixed her with a gaze, but having always found her straightforwardly honest, had no reason to doubt her. His shoulders drooped, as another door closed, and his eyes dropped to his shoes.

Mac loved Phryne dearly, but she also had some pretty deep feelings for the man in front of her, who'd supported her and her friend in some very risky situations. Seeing his eyes cloud over, and the depth of the shadows under them fall into sharp relief as he turned away, she hesitated, and then relented.

"I gave them away."

His head snapped back towards her.

"When?"

"Yesterday." She could see he was aching to ask more, and held up a hand. "I don't know where they are now, or why they were needed."

He drew a deep breath, and cast his gaze around the room, seeking inspiration. Lacking it, he turned back to her.

" _Why_ , Mac?"

"I've already said I don't know."

"Yes, but why could she not just _tell_ me?"

That, the doctor admitted, was a leveller. She didn't want to speculate as to why Phryne wouldn't tell Jack what she was up to. She gave him a sympathetic look, but as she opened her mouth to speak, the telephone rang.

When she came back from answering it, she had gone very pale.

"Work, Jack, and you're going to want to come along. A youth has been run down and killed by a tram, and they're not sure it was an accident. Corner of Spring and Flinders Streets."

His mouth went dry, and the speed at which they reached the scene of the crime was, in itself, a crime.

His only thought, when he fought his way through the crowd of ghoulish onlookers, Mac struggling to keep up behind him, was to see the body; and when he saw it, and saw that it was that of a gangly youth wearing long trousers, his relief made tears start to his eyes. He spoke to himself sternly of The Job and banished all other thoughts.

He knelt beside the body and something inside him, no matter how accustomed he might have become to the horrors of his job, died a little when he saw that the jaw had yet to earn a suspicion of manly beard, the cheekbones were so pronounced as to make the face gaunt, and the hands, though swarthy, were almost skeletal.

One of them was clasped by a teenage friend whose courage had been such as to let him remain at the scene rather than disappear, as was the wont of his like, into the shadows. The lad's hands were filthy, nails torn, and they clutched the dead boy's hand with a kind of desperation. When a teardrop fell from the bowed head, covered by a grubby flat cap from which a couple of mousey-coloured strands of hair escaped, Jack's stomach clenched, despite the cynicism of his decades of experience in the job. He barely caught the choking words from the boy opposite him, whose shoulders were still shuddering; and when he caught them, he thought he must have misheard.

"Hello, Jack."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The youth raised his head, and Jack found himself gazing into a smutty face with a very familiar pair of eyes, swimming with tears. He opened his mouth to exclaim but she whispered urgently.

"Hush. Before you say anything, I'm not interfering, I'm just finding out what's happening. It was murder, Jack, plain and simple – but your best witness will be terrified out of his skin. I'll be home by tonight, and I going to bring him with me."

"Phryne, come home now!" he muttered back. "You're obviously in danger. Let me take it from here." _You said you would, after all_ , his eyes accused her.

"Without a witness you can't do anything, and you'll never get the witness to come forward without me. It's all about fear, Jack. The only one not frightened is me, and I admit even _I'm_ getting edgy now and again." She broke off, and looked down at the dead boy's face with a new coldness – a coping-mechanism he knew well. "This is – was – Tod. Do your best for him. I'll see you later."

He reached to grasp for her hand, but she was gone, melting into the crowd, head down.

In one thing, she proved right. Although plenty of passers-by had seen the boy fall in front of the tram, there was no-one who was able to say how he had come to do so. It was a busy street, at a busy time of day, and everyone had been busy with other things.

Apparently.

Phryne kept her head down and her hands in her pockets as she wove through the crowds. Moving slowly attracted less attention than moving fast, and at all costs, she wanted to avoid attracting attention.

As she gained Little Lon, the crowd had thinned and she risked raising her head a little to glance around the street.

Her prey wasn't in sight, but there was a certain bakery with a back door that was always open to their kind, and she settled in, uncomfortably, to wait.

By the middle of the afternoon, she knew she'd made the right call. The trousers were too short, the coat lacked elbows – yes, it was him. He was clearly on edge – it took almost ten minutes for him to satisfy himself that the coast was clear. When he emerged from the bakery, he found a companion waiting for him, one foot propped nonchalantly against the wall.

"Nipper."

He jumped. "Fran? Thought I'd lost you," he said nervously.

"So you did, mate, so you did," she reassured him, falling into step as he devoured the pie in his hands. "Thought I'd like a word, though, so I waited to see if you'd turn up. And you did! Lucky, eh?" she smiled.

His cautious agreement was muffled as he attempted to inhale the whole pie in one mouthful.

As he did so, she cast a glance over her shoulder and when she saw no threat, nudged her companion into a side alley … then another … then another … and they emerged onto Queen Street.

By this time, the pie was consumed and Nipper was gathering his wits to make his next getaway.

Before he had the chance to gather too many of them, Phryne sidled up beside a shiny black taxi and, with one hand behind her back, felt for the handle. One last swift glance around, seeing the coast clear, she jerked the door open, thrust an astonished Nipper onto the floor of the cab and stepped in over him, slamming the door closed and cramming her cap down over her face.

"About ruddy time too," grumbled Albert Johnson, igniting the engine and putting his foot down. He'd turned down half a dozen decent fares and had a thirst like the Sahara bloody Desert. If it wasn't for the promise of good money and a cold beer, he'd have been gone half an hour ago. His one consolation was that Cec Yates was going to be turning up to relieve him in ten minutes' time and find him gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Phryne should perhaps have expected there to be a welcoming committee when she returned to 221B The Esplanade; the fact that she hadn't quite prepared for the prospect was demonstrated (to the person who knew her best and was watching, hands in pockets, from the parlour doorway, having been able to absent himself from City South Police Station at a relatively early hour of the afternoon) by her studiously businesslike attitude when she and her companion barrelled into the hallway via the kitchen.

Carefully addressing only the household staff, the grubby youth in the flat cap announced:

"This is Nipper. He's going to be staying with us for a few days until the police have managed to apprehend a murderer."

Nipper looked about as flummoxed by the prospect as the rest of the population.

"Mr Butler, we need Nipper to look utterly unlike himself," said Phryne matter-of-factly.

"Very good, madam. If I might suggest a bath in the first instance," responded the arbiter of household deportment with careful tact, "I will take a short trip to a gentleman's outfitters before they close. I think that, with the young man's excellent posture," (Nipper stood a little straighter at that) "we can find something which will suggest the gentleman's gentleman. And I believe Miss Lin may own a pair of non-prescription spectacles."

Nobody bothered to ask why Miss Lin would own such a thing, much in the same way that one didn't ask a crocodile to recommend its dental practitioner; but Miss Fisher agreed to the plan as outlined with enthusiasm, and betook herself to the boudoir with a rapidity that suggested Mac's garments weren't her own first choice either.

Jack followed, and closed the door behind them quietly.

He leaned his back against it, and watched her tear off the cap and the mouse-coloured short wig with desperation, dropping them on the floor to scratch her head vigorously with both hands.

" _God_ that's a relief!" she sighed, before stripping off her remaining garments and padding across the floor to set a bath running. "Tell you what, Jack, I'm dressing to the nines for dinner tonight, even if we don't go out – silk next to the skin is a luxury I'm disinclined to do without these days."

He continued to say nothing, and when she had added scented oil to the water, she looked at him under her lashes, then went to fetch the stool from her dressing table. This she carried to a position at the foot of the bath tub, before turning off the taps and stepping into the hot water. She leaned back with a groan, and sank below the water for so long that he couldn't resist the urge to go and check that she wasn't drowning.

As he leaned over, she slid back up the bath and pushed her wet hair back from her face. Taking a flannel, she wiped the water from her eyes, folded it to place behind her head and indicated the dressing-table stool.

"Okay, Jack, I'm ready now. Take a seat and start scolding. I know you want to."

He sat, but didn't say anything for a moment. She'd closed her eyes again, luxuriating in the warmth of the water and breathing deeply the jasmine scent.

"Where did you spend last night?"

She didn't open her eyes. "Under the railway arches. Dry, but cold. I think I slept a bit. Nipper had some cardboard boxes we could lie on, so it wasn't too bad."

"I was here. Hoping you were alive."

"Oh, _Jack_!" she muttered crossly. "Do you have such a poor opinion of my abilities?"

"Do you have such a poor opinion of _my_ abilities that you'd rather run the risk of being murdered yourself than talk to me, and find a way that we can lessen a risk by taking it together?" he asked tonelessly.

At that, her eyes snapped open, and she looked at him properly.

"But the police couldn't have done what I was doing!" she protested.

"No," he agreed, "we couldn't. But if we'd known, we might have been able to have some uniforms in the right place at the right time; perhaps Tod could even still be alive."

He met her gaze squarely, and it was she who looked away.

"Unfair, Jack."

"Is it?"

A lesser woman would have raised her voice, raged at him for doubting her. He was constantly floored by her courage, and her integrity.

"No." It was a whisper, and tears coursed silently down her cheeks.

For long minutes, he said no more. He helped her wash her hair and sponge her limbs, and held a warm towel in which to envelop her when she finally stepped out of the water. Wrapping it round her, sarong-style, he bent to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed, where he leaned back on the pillows and arranged her in his embrace.

When he could sense her almost dozing off, he roused her with a question – she'd rather sleep later, he was sure.

"So, tell me what you've found." He accompanied the request with a touch of his lips to her temple.

Absolution. She'd rather have it from him than from any priest or deity.

Her fingers found his open collar, and traced a delicate pattern as she began to speak.

"It's not just lots of out-of-luck young mendicants, Jack – it's organised begging on an industrial scale."

"You mean these people aren't actually homeless?"

She looked at him with what would have been disbelief if she hadn't been so tired and he hadn't been Her Jack and had just forgiven her.

"Of _course_ they're homeless. It's worse than that. They're homeless and exploited for it by people who know they're defenceless."

"Exploited how? What is there to exploit?"

It was a valid question. When a person had nothing, how could anyone gainfully exploit them?

"How many beggars do you think there are in Melbourne, Jack?" The question was mild; the intent plainly not.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "Hundreds, I suppose?"

"More like thousands. And if they all manage to cadge ten pennies a day, and someone takes most of that from them?"

"But …" he looked at her, mystified. "How could anyone?"

She gave him A Look. "By force, and by fear. Otherwise you're just another Tod, only no-one knows that that was your name."

He was aghast. A protection racket among the mendicants? Then he recalled the man who'd so scared the two performers outside the theatre.

"The bloke at the theatre?"

She nodded. "That's Tubs. 'Mean' doesn't begin to describe him. Haggle you up to a better price for his own mother, he would."

"He can't be operating alone, though?"

She'd turned over now, and propped her head on her hand. "No … there are at least three more heavies like him. Nipper will know their names. But the boss is Zorba."

She tapped his chest with one torn nail. "It was Zorba who shoved Tod under the tram. I only half-saw what happened, because Nipper was in front of me. But if you can get Nipper to admit it, on the record, you'll have broken up one of the most iniquitous crime rings I've ever seen."

She sat up, holding the towel round her with one hand and grasping his hand urgently with the other.

"Tell me you can do it, Jack."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Jack was nothing if not willing, but freely admitted that there were hurdles. They both dressed for dinner; he did justice to her elegant silks by putting on a clean shirt and tie, and resuming his suit coat; it was thus a sartorial triumph which sat down to Mr Butler's roast.

Phryne fell on it with an eagerness which reminded Jack that, no matter that she had brought it on herself, she had undergone some severe privations in the past thirty-six hours; and they ate in silence for a while, until her initial hunger was assuaged.

"The trouble is, Jack," she continued as though their conversation upstairs had only been broken off for a few seconds, "you can't just take Zorba."

"I realise it might be difficult to track him down," he argued, "but I think that the combined might of the police force of Victoria ought to be enough to secure a single criminal – especially if a certain lady detective," he raised a glass to her, "points him out."

"Oh, I'll do that of course, and hope you put me in the witness box too, to back up poor old Nipper," she replied. "What I mean, though, is that if you _only_ take Zorba, one of the others will simply step into his place. Then the least of your worries will be more intimidation of the mendicants – you'll have a turf war on your hands," she predicted sagely.

"You seem to understand the criminal mind remarkably well, Miss Fisher," he remarked blandly.

"I do, don't I, Inspector?" she agreed cheerfully. "Always from the perspective of the angels, of course."

"Oh, of course," he muttered.

"So, all you have to do is find something to charge Tubs and his chums with," she finished.

He assured her that his ingenuity was up to the task – especially if her allies among the mendicant community could be persuaded, _en masse_ or individually, to come forward.

The fruit bowl was the offering for dessert, and the peaches were plentiful; which was just as well, because the method of entrapping all of their suspects was a taxing problem. Having finally come up with a version of events which would still leave one or two of the police force available for making tea and doing traffic duty (Miss Fisher having expressed the view that it was all they did anyway, wasn't it?), they were wiping off water from the finger-bowls thoughtfully provided by Mr B when a small thunderbolt entered the room.

"MUMMA!" it cried.

"Poppet, you were supposed to be asleep … mph … _hours_ ago!" exclaimed Mrs Robinson, as the tornado launched itself into her lap and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her face.

" _You came home and didn't come and see me and I painted you a picture and you need to see it and I didn't get a story because Daddy was busy and it's Winnie-the-Pooh and please will you come and read it now Mumma please_?" came out in one breath.

Phryne grinned. "Funnily enough, your father and I have just been discussing Bears of Little Brain. Come on, then – just one chapter, then lights out. I admit, I've rather missed Mr Sanders."

Elizabeth Jane climbed down in triumph, and stood bouncing from foot to foot on the floor as Mrs Robinson took her temporary leave of Mr Robinson.

"You might go and chat to Nipper," she suggested. "See if you can find out where we need to start placing troops tomorrow?"

The Inspector nodded agreement, and as Phryne allowed herself to be dragged upstairs by a determined toddler, wandered through to the kitchen, where he found a surprising sight. Lin Soo was seated at the table; a clean, smart, shorter-haired, bespectacled Nipper had a folded napkin over his arm and an empty plate in his hand; and Mr B was standing at the foot of the table, offering gentle instruction.

" _Down_ from the right, _Up_ from the left," he said, and Nipper suited actions to the words, placing the plate in front of Soo, then moving around her to pick it up again.

"Very good, Nigel!" said Mr B encouragingly. "It's not a rule that's set in stone, but if an employer sees that you know about it, they'll be impressed."

"Thanks, sir," said Nipper awkwardly. "So, you think I could make a go of it?"

"I think you have real promise," Mr B assured him. "Don't you think so, Inspector?"

At the use of the title, though, Nipper jumped and would have dropped the plate if it hadn't been carefully removed from his hand by Soo. " _Inspector_?" he squeaked.

"That's right," said Jack, calmly. "Detective Chief Inspector, to be precise. And on your side, so you can stop panicking."

Nipper didn't appear to set a great deal of store by this notion, "I never laid a finger on her, I promise!" he said urgently, clearly concerned that he might have been thought to have had designs on his benefactor's virtue.

Jack cracked a laugh at that. "No promise necessary. No-one lays a finger on Miss Fisher unless she expressly permits it – not without repercussions, anyway. And as you are currently in one piece, I must conclude that you restrained yourself admirably."

He pulled out a chair and indicated that the others should do likewise. Nipper dropped readily into another, and Mr Butler compromised by leaning both hands on the back of one – he was never entirely comfortable sitting down in the presence of his employers.

It was perhaps as well that Nipper _was_ sitting down because he wasn't entirely comfortable either, by the time Jack had finished explaining what needed to happen. Once he was assured, though, by Mr Butler (who was rapidly assuming the persona of Deus Ex Machina in the eyes of such an impressionable youth – a process which made Soo's eyes dance with laughter as they met her lover's over the boy's head) that none of the miscreants would a) recognise him now, b) know where to find him or c) be able to get near him with the combined ranks of himself, Soo, the Inspector and Miss Fisher to contend with, he settled down a little and started to pay attention to the plans.

(He wasn't quite sure what a slip of a thing like Lin Soo had to do with all this violence, but he was sure that he could look out for her if needs be. If anyone had explained that Soo was arguably the most lethal member of the household, he might have been even more nervous; so nobody did. Time enough for him to find out if she was called upon to demonstrate her skills).


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Zorba and his four lieutenants each, apparently, had their own patrols; Zorba's was the smallest, and the most lucrative, but all of them were sufficiently wide-ranging as to cause logistical challenges for Jack. Added to this was the fact that, while Phryne could identify Zorba and both she and Jack would spot Tubs, only Nipper could reliably point out the other three. Then there was the question of their detention; at all costs, Jack wanted to make sure the miscreants could not communicate with one another.

The plan was therefore concocted that Mr Butler would take Nipper on a 'window-shopping' trip, trusting that the boy's disguise would be sufficiently convincing that he would not be spotted until it was too late. Sergeant Collins had a team of men in reserve, who would apprehend each of the criminals in turn as they were identified, and convey them to separate police stations.

Lin Soo happened to feel like going shopping too, and Miss Fisher gave the notion her blessing. They both trusted their menfolk to do their best to get the job done, but sometimes … well, a woman had to be prepared to Step In Front.

Jack had cause to be glad he'd taken a couple of men with him to apprehend Zorba. Whether it was a name or a nickname, the Mediterranean influence was strong, and the man himself equally so. It was only when presented with Miss Fisher's pearl-handled revolver, calmly held at close range to the centre of his forehead, that he could be sufficiently subdued to submit to handcuffs. The City Watch House in Russell Street readily took charge of a charge sheet that would, over the course of the coming weeks and as his victims became gradually less fearful, grow into a litany of felonies that made the Chief Commissioner – who'd had cause to doubt Chief Inspector Robinson's wisdom – sit back and congratulate himself firmly on a worthwhile job done well.

Apprehending Tubs was laughably easy; Miss Fisher took immense pleasure in tripping him up as he made after an escaping child, then rested a heel firmly on the base of his spine with an instruction not to move if he didn't want a Mary Jane in the Crown Jewels. The Inspector tried not to chuckle as he slapped on the darbies.

As he hauled Tubs to his feet, the man was shouting to anyone who would listen.

"You en't got nuthin' on me! I en't done nuthin'"

Jack smiled grimly, and turned to the lady in the natty jacket and cloche hat with jaunty feather.

"Any thoughts, Miss Fisher?"

"Oh, plenty, Chief Inspector," she said calmly, and stepped a little closer to Tubs, who hadn't enough sense to look wary.

"Two days ago," she informed him conversationally, "you spoiled my fun outside the theatre. And you ignored me.

… That was Rude.

Yesterday, you stole from me, and from some friends of mine who have a lot less than I do.

… That was Criminal.

Today, I have the opportunity to spit in your face …" she looked away for a moment, and worked her jaw. Then looked back. "But I prefer to pick on victims my own size. You'll wish you'd done the same – presently."

She turned on her heel. He yelped, and glancing down, she affected to notice that said heel was placed firmly on Tubs' foot.

"Oops," she remarked, not noticeably troubled.

Hugh, Tobias and Nipper swiftly agreed an M.O. which proved almost invincible. Tobias and Nipper strolled the streets, glancing in windows, discussing fashions and cricket scores (Nipper was a huge fan, and Mr Butler, no slouch on sporting matters, struggled to keep up). When the quarry was sighted, Nipper would go and ask Sergeant Collins, miraculously patrolling nearby, for the time. Collins produced his pocket watch, and Nipper would ask whether it was ten o'clock. Or four o' clock. Or whatever point of the clock the suspect happened to occupy. Collins would then agree, and ask if he hadn't previously seen Nipper wearing a tweed jacket, or black trousers; and Nipper would either confirm, or correct Hugh's assumption as to the target's clothing.

Everyone agreed afterwards that it was pure bad luck that Booth, the final suspect to be apprehended, had spotted Collins looking his way, and instinctively turned to run; and a happy chance that a young woman of Oriental appearance had stooped to tie her shoelace and caused Booth to slam into her side and sprawl on the paving stones.

(Mr Butler was very gentle in applying arnica and very thorough in applying congratulations that evening).

With the gracious permission of Miss Fisher, Kitchen Tea and Nursery Tea were cancelled that night, because there was to be A Party instead. Miss Elizabeth was overjoyed, especially when she discovered that her own personal Edward Bear was allowed to join in the festivities.

Between them, Mr Butler, Lin Soo, Mrs Collins and Mr B's newest pupil, Nipper, came up with a seemingly endless supply of food that could be held in one hand while the other supported a glass of champagne, or Edward Bear, depending on the age group of the party guest.

Nipper was having the time of his life. Having been turfed out of the family home when his junior siblings became so numerous that there wasn't space any more for a teenager who could conceivably look after himself, he'd almost forgotten what it was like for friends and food to be in the same place at the same time. In his recent experience, the two were mutually exclusive, except when someone had managed to keep tuppence back from Zorba to take to the pie shop.

He sliced, diced, poured, passed around and generally made himself indispensable; and as the evening went on, had to work harder and harder to find a smile.

Phryne knew why, and on a visit with Jack to the kitchen, ostensibly to check on supplies, expressed quiet concern.

"I can't let him go back to the street, Jack."

He squeezed her hand. "Of course not. He can stay in the tower room, can't he?"

She reflected that, although he'd fight the accusation tooth and nail, she'd changed the Inspector's views. He would be caring, and work hard to change Nipper's choices; but she was pretty sure he'd have stopped short of housing a vagrant before he'd been The Honourable Mr Fisher.

"If I might be so bold, Miss Fisher," Mr Butler interjected as he turned from the dresser with another plate of canapés, "I may have a solution to Nigel's problem."

"Yes, Mr B?"

"Do you recall Mr and Mrs Ralphs?"

"Ralphs …" she racked her brains, and then memory struck a chord. "Mrs Micklewright! How could I forget being shot at?"

"Indeed, Miss," said Mr Butler. "Since the murder of their butler and the arrest of their housekeeper, Mr and Mrs Ralphs have had neither the funds nor, it has to be said, the reputation among domestic staff to be able to employ a replacement of either. I believe, though, that things are looking a little better for them now – financially at least."

"I can well imagine," said Phryne dryly. "Not having to feed nine other mouths that they hadn't been aware of must have made a difference to the bank balance."

"Quite," agreed Mr B. "It occurs to me that Mrs Ralphs might appreciate the services of a partly-trained manservant, who would be prepared to accept a rather small salary in exchange for bed, board and training? I could even undertake to make sure that Nigel had the basics of a footman's responsibilities under his belt before going there, if it would help?"

"It would help enormously," declared Phryne. "Mr Butler, I've said it before and I'll say it again – you are an _angel incarnate_." She chuckled. "I will convince Mrs Ralphs of her need. Now all we have to do is persuade Nipper that he'll be quite safe in the house of a former murderer."

Nipper was, however, almost tearful in his delight at being offered a position. He had been quite sure that, once the case had been tried, he would be back on the street; and he'd rather come to like the whole clean-sheets, three-meals-a-day routine that obtained at 221B The Esplanade.

He thanked Mr Butler profusely. And Phryne. And Jack. And Soo. And Mr B again. He stopped short of thanking Elizabeth, but that was only because she'd already gone to bed.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It should have been a victory. It _was_ a victory. Why, thought Phryne, didn't it feel like one?

She stared at the ceiling, and resolved not to shift about too much, because although she'd awarded herself a day off tomorrow, the Detective Chief Inspector had no such luxury.

Then, of a sudden, realisation dawned; and with it, an involuntary tear stole out of the corner of her eye. Then another. Then the pillow was starting to get uncomfortably damp, and she leaned up, as carefully as possible, to extract a handkerchief from her bedside drawer.

She spoke to herself sternly, wiped her nose and eyes, and eased back onto the mattress.

A hand reached across the bed, grasped hers and dragged it over.

"What is it?" he whispered groggily.

"It's not just Nipper, is it?"

There was a pause for befogged thought, and he pulled her into his arms. The act of tenderness started her tears again in earnest.

"Oh, for heavens' sake," she muttered angrily, "Why have I become a watering-can all of a sudden?" She sat up, reached for the soggy handkerchief and blew her nose with more enthusiasm than elegance, then resumed her spot at the Inspector's side. Her breathing gradually settled to a more relaxed pattern; he was glad that he hadn't bothered pointing out that two days without sleep would sometimes leave defences down. Instead, he hugged her closer.

"Phryne," he murmured into her hair. "You can't save all of them. Nor can I. We can only try to keep the peace and keep them off the streets, one at a time."

She burrowed more deeply into him and he let her. For him, One At A Time was a calculation of faceless statistics; for her, it was already a list of personalities and every last one mattered, almost as much as Jane or Elizabeth.

For more long minutes, neither of them moved nor spoke. Then she lifted her face to his, and her eyes were fierce with a new resolve.

"Jack, Aunt Prudence is going to invite us for lunch. The other guest is going to be the Mayor. And he's going to help them. More than just One At A Time."

A foolish man would have doubted, at that point, that Phryne Fisher had it in her to turn around the political agenda of Melbourne to make mendicants one of the highest priorities.

Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson was no fool.

She dropped her head into the hollow of his shoulder again and, for a while, peace reigned in the boudoir. An innocent observer might have supposed that both occupants of the bed had finally fallen asleep. Closer examination, though, would have revealed that his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling; hers equally alert, focussed on the steady rise and fall of his chest under her hand.

"Miss Fisher?"

"Yes, Inspector?"

"You left me."

"Yes, Inspector."

"Don't do it again."

"No, Inspector."

Phryne knew that actions could sometimes speak louder than words, and felt that some acting was perhaps in order.

She had always been a _very_ talented actor.


End file.
